I missed my blog’s birthday. It turned four on the 27th of August.

I feel terrible. Luckily, my blog doesn’t have feelings.

Lots of things have happened in four years. I’m glad you, my readers, have been here to share some of it with me.

This blog literally saved my career. Your comments and emails have been funny, sad, enlightening, and all sorts of other adjectives. You guys, my readers, are a big reason I’m still here riding the bus.

Thanks for being here, and for reading.


“Male assaulted. PD on scene” reads the MDT. It’s raining and traffic is heavy, so I have to actually pay attention to the roads instead of the book I was reading.

I’m reading the new Grisham book, Gray Mountain. I can’t recommend it yet.

We finally make it on scene to find a guy in his early thirties standing with local law enforcement in the living room of his apartment. He has blood streaming down his face, and he is holding a towel against his head.

Shaq is taking the lead on this one. He’s going to be in Paramedic school soon, and needs to get used to assessing patients. Plus, he is really good at it. Good enough that I rarely have any questions for my patients, or tips for my partner.

After sensing an opening in the conversation with local law enforcement and the injured gentleman, Shaq breaks in:

“Man, what happened to your head?”

“That bitch hit me with a smoovie!”

“A smoothie?”

“Yeah! A smoovie!”

A glance at the gentlemen with the firearms confirms the previous point: they have no idea what is going on either, and how a cold fruit emulsion could have caused such a wound.

“She hit you in the head with a smoothie?”

“Yeah! I said that already!”

“But how did it cut you like that?”

“Cuz it’s heavy, man! Damn!”

“But, it’s soft, and it’s in a styrofoam cup or something.”

“Naw, man! It’s heavy!”

“A smoothie is heavy?”

“Yeah, man. Heavy. One of them things you smoove your clothes with!”

“One of the things you smooth your clothes with?”


“But, I don’t really…I’m confu-oh! Do you mean an IRON?”



I can’t think of what to name my new partner. So I came up with Shaq.

He’s like 8 inches taller than me, older than me, and likes basketball. He said he wanted his blog name to be Shaq, so it is.

So that settles it then.

I still miss Slimm.

But this guy is pretty cool.

Where are y’all coming from?

Lately I have noticed more and more traffic coming to my blog, and its Facebook page. Somehow, ‘likes’ on my Facebook page have more than doubled in the past few months.

Not that I’m complaining or anything, just curious to know where everyone is coming from.

I thought it was just Flash and my mom that were reading this blog, but I’ve been proven wrong again.


“What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing. She’s got the tachylawdys.”

“Geez. Take her to triage.”


‘Tachylawdy’ is a thing down here. Along with sick rags, but that’s a whole different post. Never have I seen tachylawdy present in a sick patient. Not once. The only times I have seen tachylawdy present in the field are:

  • anxiety
  • doesn’t want to be at work
  • [pick your male family member] is getting arrested
  • anxiety because of being at work
  • getting pulled over

I have never seen a patient present with the tachylawdys without the presence of other concerned family members. Nor have I ever seen a male patient present with the tachylawdys. I have, however, seen the tachylawdys present in female family members that were present while I was caring for another person, be it male or female.

Basically, you walk into a house and find a female, usually with the back of her hand on her forehead, always with her head turned away from you, eyes closed, not a damn thing wrong with her:

“Oh, lawdylawdylawdylawdylawdy…. OOOOOOOH, lawdylawdylawdylawdylawdylawdyheppmelawdylawdylawdy…”


Bradyjeezus now, is much, much more serious.

Overheard in the EMS room

Two guys, who work for the same company, but not Local Ambulance:

“You know, I’m thinking of getting out this business.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“No, man, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, right. What are you going to do?”

“I’m thinking of going into acting.”

“What makes you think you could be an actor?”

“I think I’m pretty good at it. I act like I care every day at work.”

Overtime sucks

I never pick up overtime shifts. Except when I do.

Now I’m stuck in this ambulance sitting in the parking lot of some hospital in an unfamiliar county, waiting on some little old lady to finish with her lunch so we can take her back to her nursing home. With a guy that has a strange, slightly unpleasant odor, and a penchant for telling war stories. I just want to take a nap, and this guy is trying to tell me about a bus crash on the side of a mountain during the first Bush administration.

Some war stories are cool. But not this guy’s war stories.

My employer is paying me time-and-a-half for this shift. And that still isn’t enough.


My blog turns three today.


It has been pretty fun so far.

Thanks, Dave. I’ve enjoyed the ride.

Here’s to many more years.

Hurry up and wait

“You guys want to do a SWAT standby?”

“Uh, is the Pope Catholic?”

“Okay, head over to PD headquarters. Briefing starts in fifteen.”

Forty-five minutes later, no briefing. That’s fine. Newguy and I are flicking a paper football across a desk. He’s winning.

Finally the briefing starts. Some guy got mad at another guy for talking to the first guy’s girlfriend, so he punched him, then the first guy stabbed the second guy with a screwdriver and killed him. Now there is a murder warrant, and these nice fellows are going to persuade first guy to come spend some time with them in their Iron Bar Motel.

All over a girl.

Three hours after clocking in, we leave PD headquarters. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that lunch time is fast approaching. I’m always hungry though.

PD makes us stage at the entrance to the neighborhood, not too far from the suspect’s home, but not visible. Except to the dozens of cars entering and leaving. We are hanging out with some fire guys and PD officers. At least the weather is nice.

“We are looking to go in about an hour.”


Now I’m really hungry, but we can’t leave. I make an executive decision and find a phone number after a quick Google search.

“Hey, what do you like on your pizza?”

“Black olives and tomatoes.”

“On it.”

The pizza shop guy takes my order, and seems confused when I tell him I am at the entrance to a neighborhood. “I’m one of the two guys in white shirts, by the ambulance. You can’t miss it.”

The pizza was delicious.

And after thirty minutes of strongly-worded warnings from police, a door being kicked in, and swift SWAT action, the call is over.

The perp wasn’t home.

Best five-hour call ever.


Rule #1

Unless your life is in imminent danger, never, ever, run on a scene.

Running back to your truck because you need some equipment? You look unprepared, and should have either brought the equipment with you, or take the patient to the ambulance.

Running with the stretcher towards the ambulance? You look like you don’t have the situation under control.

Basically, you look silly.

Sixteen years, and I have never been faced with a situation that made me want to run while on a scene.